


Buried

by WomanInWhite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester - Freeform, John Winchester - Freeform, One Shot, Pre-Series, Training, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WomanInWhite/pseuds/WomanInWhite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did Dean get out of that coffin when he rose from hell? It was because John Winchester made it his mission to keep his boys safe. Part of that meant training his boys to defend themselves, and leaving them prepared for any situations, including live burial. And a teenage Dean tries his best to complete the exercise, but is it too much?</p>
<p>Excerpt: <br/>He was sweating and he’d already gotten splinters all over his fingertips from dragging his nails against the untreated wood above him. His whole body was shaking uncontrollably. He pushed at the lid of the makeshift coffin his father had nailed him into, but the dirt wouldn’t give. He dragged the back of his hand over his face, wiping away tears and sweat before trying again, but he just wasn’t strong enough. Dean rasped, “Dad, I can’t! Oh, God, dad, please!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buried

“Dad? Dad! Dad, please!”

Dean’s throat was sore from the sweltering heat and his increasingly panicked pleas. It was pitch dark and Dean could only lie there, blind, trembling fists pounding on the wooden planks above him, hoping as he so rarely did that his father would hear the terror in his voice and show him some mercy.

Dean could barely hear his father’s gruff voice, muffled by a thick layer of loose dirt, “Son, quit panicking and concentrate. Every second counts and you can’t afford to be afraid in this kind of situation. Just focus on getting yourself out like I taught you.”

Dean tried to slow his breathing, but the air felt so thin and he was so scared that he was running out of oxygen that his heart pounded rapidly, forcing him to take gasping breaths to feed the fear the coursed through him. He was sweating and he’d already gotten splinters all over his fingertips from dragging his nails against the untreated wood above him. His whole body was shaking uncontrollably. He pushed at the lid of the makeshift coffin his father had nailed him into, but the dirt wouldn’t give. He dragged the back of his hand over his face, wiping away tears and sweat before trying again, but he just wasn’t strong enough.

Dean rasped, “Dad, I can’t! Oh, God, dad, please!” He didn’t even care that he was begging at this point. He just had to get out of there, now. He wished he would’ve gone to school that day instead of choosing to spend it with his father who had just returned from a long hunt. Usually his father wanted to relax a little and focus on research after being away for so long. Dean didn’t expect the rigorous POW training his father insisted he complete on the off-chance he’d be taken hostage or trapped in an impossible situation like this one.

He pushed his shaking palms against the wood, choking out a breath, his back digging into the bottom of the coffin as he grit his teeth in an earnest attempt to try and crack the lid, but it wouldn’t budge. Dean screamed in frustration and fear. He was afraid his father wouldn’t help him. Or maybe he would wait too long, and be too late to respond to his cries for help. “Dad, let me out! Please!” The words were drawn out and choppy with misery. He couldn’t help the sobs that started to escape him, and he knew the air was depleting rapidly, but he couldn’t help the panic that had set in.

He heard his father’s voice again, but he couldn’t make out any of the words with his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. He heard the grainy stab of a shovel digging into the dry dirt above him, but it was too far away, he thought. His breaths grew stronger but there wasn’t enough air to take in. He started to moan and whine, too worn out to think of a plea he hadn’t said that would actually work on his father, simply begging in the most animal sense.

Dean wondered if he would die in here. He immediately thought of Sam. The kid was probably on his way back from school, still free of the rigorous training their father would eventually give him when he decided Sam was old enough. Dean would be leaving him behind. He wanted to be there to make it easier on Sam. Their father never seemed to know when enough was enough, he didn’t know when to quit. He was always pushing Dean to his limits and breaking them. Dean was afraid he would do the same to Sam, and the thought of his little brother feeling the same terror he felt, lying alone in a hot, airless coffin… it was unbearable. But what could he do? He was trapped here.

Dean’s breathing started to slow down as he fell silent and he started to feel lightheaded enough that he could sleep. He knew he shouldn’t. His father had made that very clear. He knew he should try to stay calm and alert. But it was so dark and warm in there, the coffin filled with the heavy air of his stale breaths, and he was just so tired. His eyelids fell before he could stop them.

And suddenly, Dean was being shaken awake. A breeze blew against his skin, cool and clammy in contrast with the sun’s warming rays. He thought he could hear someone shouting far away, and then in an instant, it was right in front of him, “Dean!”

Dean’s eyes fluttered open, sore and stinging as his head lolled limply on his shoulders, his father’s strong hand clutching at his arms and jostling him back into consciousness. Dean slurred, “M’sorry.”

John pursed his lips and wiped some dirt from Dean’s tear-stained cheek, crouching over his son in the coffin in the 4 foot deep hole in the ground. Dean averted his eyes, ashamed. Now that it was over, he was upset that he’d failed the training exercise and embarrassed that he had cried like a child. He could almost feel his father’s disappointment cut through him like a knife.

Once Dean was breathing normally again, John clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, “We’ll pick this up again tomorrow.” 

Dean’s stomach lurched at the thought of going back in the box, but he simply nodded and mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

John pulled himself out of the hole and looked back down at Dean, whose eyes were still focused on his lap, and he let out a deep sigh. The teenage boy looked miserable and he decided to head back to pastor Jim’s on his own.

When John was out of sight, Dean pulled his legs up to his chest and dug his dirty palms into his eyes, unable to fight the tears of shame, fear and whatever else from coming out. He stayed in that hole. He deserved that coffin. He wished his father had just left him there, buried.


End file.
